Malta

I went to Malta at the end of September for some work thingamabob. I had to look it up on a map first (thanks, Google!). I knew it was Mediterranian, but exactly where I did not know. Anyway, it's apparently smack in the middle of the Med, south of Sicily.

Because of this, it's hella warm and sunny -- which probably explains why it's so crowded. It's about 7km long, but home to 400,000 people, making it one of the most densely populated places in the EU.

And, because of its handy location -- south of Italy, north of Africa -- it's got a cool mix of Southern Europe and Arabic culture, which shows in the language and the architecture.







Right. So the conference thingamabob was held at a posh hotel on a bay on the north side of the island. For some reason, when I checked in, they decided to give me the ambassador suite: two bathrooms, massive bedroom, sitting area, dining room, two seperate balconies -- and a rooftop patio overlooking the sea. I honestly considered barricading myself in that room and never, ever leaving.

And yes, I did use both bathrooms. I alternated.

Aside from listening to people ramble about ethernets, the group also travelled to the medieaval city of Mdina for dinner one night. Built on top of a hill, this fortress-town is actually still lived in -- but you've got to be descended from royalty to live there... and have a lot of money.

I had the glory of staying in my lovely room for just two nights. On the Friday, however, as the conference was over, I had to leave (or pay more money than I was willing in order to stay).

Me and a few other journos -- one of whom, like me, hadn't bothered to book a room for the weekend -- cabbed it to the capital city of Valetta. I figured that as this place is a pretty big tourist destination, finding a hotel/hostel would be easy. I was wrong. Accomodations in Valetta are few and booked months ahead of time.

After calling all the hotels and guest houses listed by the tourist office, I found one room in a hostel, handily around the corner from the hotel of the journos with better planning skills.

This place was a step down from the resort, however (anything would have been, mind you, but this was of the mind-your-step-b/c-it's-a-big-one variety). It had two twin beds, a shoddy dresser and a toilet in the hall -- but its window opened up into the historical old town. Looking out the window, down the steep street, with laundry hung out of buildings, and cats lounging on the stairs, it was hard to be too concerned about the quality of the bed.



Valetta is the "old town". All the buildings look ancient. We wandered down one side and up another -- it's a whole kilometer in length -- marveling at the steep hills and looking out over the harbour. Then we did what journos and PRs do when they get together -- we drank. Beer.

At one point, walking down the street, we came across a religious procession -- people in pope-like garb, leading a group of guys carrying a huge statue. Chanting and singing. On a Friday night. Down the main street. This place is rather religious.

The next day, my roomie John and I took one of the hilariously old-school Maltese buses south across the island. We stopped off, unintentionally, and saw some ancient ruins. Much older than Egypt's pyramids, our tour guide from the Mdina night had lamented that they weren't as popular. She suggested this was because Egypt is a bigger country. I suggest it's because these ruins are a pile of rocks, and the pyramids are marvels of engineering.

From there, we walked along the road to the sea, which was our actual destination. We were looking to take a boat trip to the Blue Grotto, a seaside cave with ridiculously blue water. Hopping onto our seven-seater motorboat, we bumped along on top of the water, past the little town, along the cliffs -- where Italian teenagers sunbathed, and seriously hardcore fisherman climbed down in order to set out their poles.

The water along the cliffs was a dark inky blue. It looked middle-of-the-ocean deep, despite being just feet from the shore. But once inside the caves, the water turned crystal clear, a blue like you'd see on a stone on a cheap ring. Along the edge of the water, the stone was purple and pink.

All that, while exceptionally pretty, had nothing on the water further down. There's a strange algae in the water, which makes it really insanely blue, and when the light hits in the right way, it's electric looking. Really wicked awesome. (Video here and here.)

After that, we bused it back through the little winding streets that cover Malta, and hooked up with the other two for drinks, dinner and more drinks.

The next day, John took off to catch his early flight, and Matt wrote stories (downsides of freelance), so Hillary and I wandered Valetta. We attempted to shop, but most of the stores were closed Sunday, as this country is very Catholic. We did attempt to wander a market, but it was so crowded -- with people and utter shit -- that we left to wander the town some more.

It was freaking hot out, and our energy waned as the day went on and we trekked up stupidly steep streets. We eventually found the palace, wandered in, and then were kicked out, because it was closed. It was a lazy, aimless day in the sun -- perfect way to spend holiday time, as far as I'm concerned.

I headed back to London that night, catching a RyanAir (it's like a bus, that flies!) flight that arrived at Luton at midnight. The queues for passport control were weirdly long, and then I missed my train, so had to take the coach back into Oxford Street, where it was (of course) raining...

More Malta pics are here.

Vegas, baby!

In the continuing saga of random places PR firms and their tech clients send me -- see: Malta, Dresden, Miami, Seattle, Prague, Amsterdam -- I spent a week in luxury at the Mandalay Bay resort on the Strip in Vegas.





What a weird place, Vegas. It’s like Disneyland for adults. Everything is fake and sterile and commercialized… but hey, it's still hella fun.

The first day I arrived, I barely managed to leave my hotel. It was pretty big, okay? I stumbled jet-lagged through some random mall over to the Luxor, which is pyramid-shaped and Egyptian themed. It’s cool looking, no doubt. But I’m not sure I’d want to stay there – the slanting interior feels weird and the echoing chamber a bit cold. Then again, what do you expect when you theme your luxury hotel on a tomb?

Anyway, there were banners up everywhere promoting Nicky Hilton’s birthday bash (the night before, shame I missed it) at the Luxor’s club, LAX. Amusingly, in small(er) print at the bottom of the banner, just underneath the number to call for tickets, the promoters advised that anyone with a Luxor room key had automatic free entry – wow, exclusive, that.

Right. The next day, as the conference hadn’t really started, I took a stroll down the strip, passing all the ridiculous hotels – Luxor’s take on Egypt, Excalibur’s take on mediaeval England, MGM Grand’s take on Green. It’s all very tacky in a luxurious sort of way. It’s like Britney Spears – rich yet cheap.

I eventually made my way most of the way down the Strip – it’s about an hour walk – where I found the Fashion Show Mall, so called because it’s a mall which has fashion shows, which is rather brilliant. The shite dollar meant my pounds went twice as far as normal, so I could actually afford to buy things. Things which cost money. This hasn’t happened in a while, so it was exciting.

Looking to extend my sterling even further, I hopped the amsuinigly named Deuce bus to an outlet mall, which wasn't really worth the $5 travel card, but killed a few extra hours before I headed back to the hotel, where I must have gone out for dinner, but don't remember. I was jetlagged then, and still am now. At some point we ended up at the top-floor bar, with a view out across the strip, which was pretty awesome. But that might have been Sunday. I really am confused.

Monday, the conference started, which kept me busy all day. I didn't even leave the air-conditioned hotel (again) until dinner, when we went to the Harley Davidson Cafe for food. I'd like to think it's just a stereotype, but servings really are bigger in the US than the UK. I got about half way through my burger before calling it quits.

Tuesday -- again, no going outside until post-work, at which point I met up with my aunt, uncle and cousin. I had three sets of aunts/uncles in town, and managed to meet up with one (my phone was being weird.) After that, we (journos, etc) headed to some bar called Pure, where we'd booked their rooftop area. It was pretty cool... until our time ran out, and they made us leave. I guess we weren't cool enough to overstay our paid-for welcome. After that, we hotel-bar hopped from some divey-Irishy-thing to the Venitian, where we drank to much and nearly fell asleep at the table. Getting back to the hotel, one journo named Tony wandered off to the casino, and showing a marked resemblence to Calgary-Tony, won $200 at poker.




Wednesday, more work. (Noticing a trend?) I did get a spare half-hour to go look at the hotel's aquarium... they have sharks (video here). And a turtle. Maybe more. The evening event was intriguing, however. It was the conference's big gala dinner, where they got all 4,000 attendees into a big warehouse room (made me think of grad at the Big Four) to shovel food into our faces, before pushing us off to a ballroom to take in the glorious sounds of none other than grammy-award winners Hootie and the Blowfish (video here and here). This really, really amused me. After actually watching all of Hootie's performance, we went to the casino. I was up $13 on a $1 bet, but lost it all after an american tried to pick up on me. He was cute, but clearly unlucky.



Thursday, after doing some writing, I did something I'd been wanting to do all week: go to the pool. Mandalay Bay's pool area is ridiculous. They have sand! and a wave pool! and a fake river, with a current! And, best of all: sunshine -- sweet, sweet sunshine. After a boozy lunch, a few of us headed off to the airport, where we sat for three hours, waiting for our delayed flight. I love air travel.

After sitting through a ten and a half hour flight next to a very attractive, incredibly stupid couple, we reached Gatwick, where the plane had to land on autopilot because the weather was so shit and foggy that no one could see. Ahhh, England.

More pictures are here.

Tour de France... in London?

Inexplicably, the Tour de France started in London last weekend. I say "inexplicably" because it's the Tour de France, after all -- and last I checked, London has not been invaded. (Insert "cheese-eating surrender monkey" joke here.) Apparently the TdF starts 's outside of France from time to time -- this is the 16th time that's happened.

Anyway, I thought the thought of watching people cycle would be overwhelmingly lame, so wasn't going to go watch any of it, but Shannon talked me into it, and it was sunny last Saturday, so I went to go watch the time trials in Hyde Park.

Holy massive thighs Batman, it was hella cool.



The time trials are to decide the order of the race, which set off the next day, on Sunday. The 8km track ran from near Trafalgar Square through the park and then back again, so areas around that were all blocked from traffic. Cycling down the middle of Westminster Bridge, past Big Ben, I thought this was quite cool. But by the time I hit Hyde Park, the crowds were so thick I had to get off and push. Took me an hour to get from Waterloo to the spot where Shatrick waited north of the Serpentine. (There is an event planned for September where the city's going to close a bunch of roads to cars, which should be hella cool. As long as the pedestrians stay out of my way...)

Anyway, once I arrived and drank two canned G&Ts, I relaxed a bit, and started to really enjoy the race. They go bloody fast. I know that sounds like an obvious statement, but photographing them proved nearly impossible, and video wasn't much better. We were sitting in front of a giant tv screen, and according to the commentator dudes, the cadence of the cyclists -- how fast they pedal -- was a hundred times a minute. So they're moving their legs in that little circle more than once a second. I counted it out as they went by, and indeed they were moving that fast.




One dude hit a side barrier and wiped out. I jumped and instinctively covered my face with my hands when it happened. At least I wasn't going that fast when I bit the pavement.

The fastest time came in a few seconds under 9 minutes for the 8km track -- so roughly 54km/hr. On a bike. The winner was ridiculously faster than the rest of the racers, beating the second place dude by some 12 seconds (or something like that). The commentators commented that the escort motorbikes actually slowed him down on a few corners.

After all the racers finished, we hung out and waited for the crowds to thin before heading over to Kensington. I took the opportunity going there and heading back home to cycle down the track -- essentially just roadways around the park, lined with temporary fencing and banners. I wasn't the only cyclist out pretending to be Lance Armstrong, and despite going about as fast as my little commuter can go, was still being passed by show-offs in spandex on road bikes.

The next day, Emily -- despite multiple protestations against sport of any kind -- and I met up near Tower Bridge to see the racers do their warm up ride before the race's rolling start in Greenwich (ending for the day some 213 km away in Canterbury). There was a weird ceremony at the top of the bridge -- for the jersies? -- before all the cyclists rolled past us in about 20 seconds. It then took us 20 minutes to get off the bridge, because of all the crowds.





It surprised me a bit -- given the rather boring nature of watching cycling -- that so many people came out, but the crowds apparently were in the millions both days. Will it spur Londoners to take up cycling? One hopes not, as the roads are crowded enough as it is... As I shall explain in my next post... (don't let the suspense kill you.)

More photos here, more videos here and here, and here are some panos:

Paris avec la DarNat

So here's what we actually did in Paris, in more detail than is strictly necessary... But really, this blog is more for me than it is for you.

DarNat were travelling with Daorcey's parents (Colin and Jannose) who were chaperoning a school trip around war sites in France and Belgium. As they had three days in Paris at the end of the tour, I figured I may as well hop the Eurostar and go for a visit.

As noted previously, we met at the Eiffel Tower, where we ditched the 20 teenagers (leaving them with their teachers and the tour guide) and headed to the Arc de Triomphe where we watched the mayhem that is the massive traffic circle (video).

We then trudged/metroed back to Bastille, where Daorcey got us lost looking for their hotel before heading to a supremely shit dinner (green beans!). Such a shame to have a bad dining experience in Paris... So we got a bottle of wine, and headed back to DarNat's hotel, where Daorcey and I got drunk and talked about media while Nat fell asleep -- but not before the return of Private Obvious. I returned to my hostel and crawled into bed in my darkened room, trying not to disturb my dutch roommates unnecessarily...



The next day, we again ditched the tour group, opting to walk to the Louvre along the river rather than go on a bus tour with the teenagers. The Louvre (video) is as it always is: frustratingly crowded and not worth the fuss. Amazing collection, horribly presented. Such a shame. But we did get to see Napoleon coronating himself this time... (which really deserves a post of it's own) and we did get to see the flying spaghetti monster (video).


We then rejoined the kids for an hour in Montmartre (video1, video2). If you've been there recently, you'll know all about the annoying dudes with the bracelet scam. If you haven't, and you plan to go, don't let anyone make you a bracelet. Anyway, some dude tried to get me to go along with his scam, and this exchange occurred:

Me, loudly: No, no, no.
Him, abrasively: You should go to Iraq and get your throat slit.

Excellent. After that, we were off to dinner at a crazy Greek restaurant in the Latin Quarter, where the waiters tried to get their hands all over the cuter girl teenagers, and where natalie confused one kid by telling him: "Love between two men is the purest form of love there is." This was prompted by a decorative plate illustrated by two men engaged in uh, love. Then we took the boat tour (video).

The next/last day, we were off to Versailles. Annoyingly, the employees of the palace had decided -- being French -- not to work for the first hour. Some sort of work to rule campaign. By the time they stopped striking, the lineups were massive -- but they were less lineups and more scrums. Scrums of European teenagers with mullets and skinny jeans. As you can imagine, it didn't take long for me to lose my temper.





We eventually got into the building, speedwalked through some very fancy rooms (video) to the other Coronation of Napoleon painting and then ditched out to the gardens... After opting to not go back to Paris with the group, we rented bikes and cycled around Marie Antoinette's crazy town, got yelled at by French police (apparently, being English isn't an excuse) and then trained it back to Paris, where we walked around the Latin Quarter -- andI finally got to look around Shakespeare and Co, the most amazing bookstore ever; none of the books on the top floor are for sale, but you can hang out and read them -- before going for dinner near Republique.

And then we tried to go to bed, while the teenagers tried to get drunk. We both eventually succeeded.


More pics live here and videos live here.

Paris by Night

One night, we took a trip up and down the Seine on a boat -- a bateaux mouche, it's called. Apparently.

Like many cities, the nicest buildings and prettiest sites in Paris are along the river. The dramatic night time lighting didn't hurt either. So here're a few crappy clips mashed together for your viewing pleasure...



And yes, I am having fun with video tonight, altho I think it's time for bed now... This video lives here.

Screechy Paris

The catchphrase -- if you can call it that -- of this trip to Paris seemed to be, well, screeching.

These videos are probably only funny to myself and DarNat, but hey, that's good enough for me.












To me, that's damn funny. Go here for video one, video two or video three.

Sunny Paris

The first draft of this post was originally written in my deteriorating (and soon to be replaced) moleskin notebook as I lounged in the grass beneath the square trees on the south side of the eiffel tower, waiting for DarNat to arrive.


This is what happens when you leave me waiting...


They're late, but despite my impatience to see them, it's impossible to be anything but serene in such a setting (tho it would be the French that could manage it). It's a perfect sunny afternoon, with a gentle breeze keeping the heat comfortable. The hordes of tourists are far enough away that their din is a pleasant sea-like murmur. It is a perfect spring day in Paris -- and that is a wonderful thing indeed.

It's so lovely -- the weather and the city -- that despite a day of delays and frustrations, I've stayed happy and calm -- and this is me we're talking about here.

The Eurostar was, as is the norm with British public transport, delayed due to a broken train. It was fine when it rolled in, but they somehow managed to break it as it sat in the station. But the half-hour delay was as close as it gets to punctuality for this service, so I wasn't too bothered.

After finally arriving at Gare de Nord -- my direct service for some reason had stops in Ashford and Lille -- I buy a carnet of tickets and catch the metro to Bastille to find my pre-booked hostel. They tell me they have no reservation in my name and no beds for the night. I start to feel the anger rising, but it subsides when I think: hell, I'm in Paris in the spring -- c'est la vie, right?

Knowing how the French can be, I've come prepared with a back up list of other hostels in the area. The first is closed. The second is not yet open. The last is full. But it's sunny, and it's Paris, and I'm still happy.

At the last hostel, the receptionist tells me she knows a hostel near Republique which definitely has beds for the night. So I hope back on the metro, but despite her detailed directions can not find the place. I pop into an expensive internet cafe -- three euros for a half hour -- and get a new list of hostels to try. List in hand (in the moleskin, in fact) I head back to Bastille via the metro.

I've spent, at this point, the first three hours of my time in Paris hunting for hostels. Despite this, I'm not frustrated, angry or upset. I keep feeling like I'm about to head that way but then the sunshine and the city change my mind.

Eventually, I find a bed in a hostel near Gare de Lyon. I've twenty minutes before I'm due to meet DarNat at the south east side of the south leg of the tower at 3pm (feels like a spy novel, but then we'd be at Pont Neuf, wouldn't we?) so I cross the Seine and hop on the RER train, arriving right on time.


Looking around the gardens, waiting for DarNat...


I find my spot on the grass under the looming tower, scrawl this entry into my notebook and then lounge in the sunshine, reading a book on civilisation -- feeling very French and very, very happy.

A while later, I hear the sound of someone running up behind me, and Nat nearly tackles me, as she tends to do. And if there's anything better than warm sunny Paris, it's warm sunny Paris with DarNat... and a group of teenagers from Stony Plain? Yeah, we'll see how long the happy feelings continue with a bus full of high schoolers...

Go here for video one and video two, because yes, the digicam is still busted. Time for a new one, I'm afraid...

Shakira, Shakira

I haven't posted in ages because I've done nothing since returning from Prague, owing to a very violent and angry illness, which my boss refers to as an Eastern European Lurgi.

Anyway, Emily, in her awesome ticket-getting goodness, managed to get a pair of freebie tickets to see Shakira last Sunday. I'm not really into pop divas, but damn, who would pass that up?

To sum up the show in three words: Bitch can dance. I mean, maybe that seems obvious, but really, it's phenomenal. She can even move her breasts around without moving the rest of her body -- a bit creepy, but she must have awesome pecs. Sadly, didn't get video of that. But really, her crazy hips make Britney's porn star act look school-girlish and Christina's platform-shoed prancing look silly.

Throw in the cat-like screeching and ESL lyrics, and it's all good. Add in the coked-up (maybe I stereotype?) Colombian girls falling down the stairs and nearly taking out the beer girl, and it's even better.

What I really liked about the concert was how laid-back and sweet Shakira seemed. The entire show she did barefoot, and while she did prance around in a sparkly bikini top for a large part of the show, she wore these baggy black trousers the entire time -- even under skirts. That's the sort of thing I'd do for a costume party when I was an insecure teenager.

For a few songs, her clothes were flashbacks to the early nineties: the aforementioned big, wide-legged trousers and a tiny baby-tee (also things I used to wear, way back when).



There were no red pleather body-suits a la Britney a few years back (when she was still hot). She did come on stage in a crazy-ass dress with massive flowing sleeves for one song, and dressed in Indian costume for another, but even with sparkle-encased boobs she never came off as slutty. Maybe I'm getting old, but I kind of like that. The not-sluttiness, not the sparkly boobs. Actually, hell, I'll admit to both.

Videos live here; crappy photos live here.

Prague

So last week, I spent three days in Prague -- not instead of work, but as work. Yeah, sucks, eh? Unlike with Amsterdam, I actually got to see quite a bit of the city, which is very pretty.


Not unlike most European cities, it has an old town, lots o'churches and a castle. It also features cheap beer (no wonder Bailey liked it) and a crazy-ass bridge with massive religious statues (the view seen in the panoramic above -- thanks autostich! -- is that bridge on the left and the castle/church on the right).

The first day I wandered along the river, crossed the Charles Bridge and then climbed up to the castle, which is more a bunch of palace-type buildings set around a massive gothic cathedral -- like Notre Dame wrapped in Versailles.


The next day, I was trapped in the hotel listening to the wonders of virtual networks -- which I've got to say actually is a business model which rather makes a lot of sense, but I won't bore you with the details. We then had the usual dinner and drinks, which is exactly how you'd imagine it: tasty and drunk. I won't bore you with the details on that, either.

The third day, after peeling myself out of bed and my contacts off my eyes -- gotta stop falling asleep with them in, cause it really doesn't feel great -- I set off in the general direction of the Old Town Square, got lost (as I tend to do), went shopping (as I tend to do), and then found the Old Town Square:



I then realized I'd lost my bank card and frantically used another journalist's mobile to sort that out -- I'm sure he thinks I'm an idiot, as I couldn't figure out how to use his phone, and I'm a technology journalist, so yeah. Not impressive on my part.

No more work travel planned for the moment, so next up is Paris with DarNat... again. Daorcey better let me eat this time or I'm going to send his office photos of Captain Obvious...

More pictures here and some random video of a clock tower going off here. Oh -- and the Czechs drink Kubik juice. Nasty.

Amsterdam

I flew out early Thursday morning from snowed-in Heathrow for a press conference thingy in Amsterdam. Our flight was delayed -- amazing what a few inches of the white stuff does to people here -- but at least we eventually took off.

Because I was inside listening to executives yammer on and on about how awesome their company is, I didn't get to see too much of the city.



From what I did see, it's pretty freakin' awesome. I didn't realize how many canals there actually are -- every other street is water. Houseboats sit along the canals, which are lined with little cobbled streets and lovely three storey houses.

And there's bikes everywhere. The roads are ridiculously tiny and seem to close at random, so I can see why people choose to cycle. But it's the way they do it that's amazing. In London, I cycle to work on a mountain bike, armoured with helmet and rain gear. My bike has mudguards and front and rear lights. I bring a change of clothes to work, as I pedal as hard as I can.

In Amsterdam, cyclists aren't rushing -- they just kind of drift along, acting more like pedestrians than vehicles. Their bikes are funky, but clearly not built for speed. Women in dresses and men in suits roll along, without helmets or reflectors.

It's a nice reflection of how relaxed the city is, but these people would die cycling like that in London.




Anyway, after the press stuff, we were taken on a boat tour through some of the canals and then dumped off for dinner (and a hell of a lot of drinks) before wandering to some bar. I did not manage to find the red light district (or the illicit pleasures contained there) so I think I need to plan a trip back...

There's a post worth writing about my thoughts on junkets and PR expense accounts and the ethics of this, but let me defend myself generally with two points:

1. I write IT stuff, which is inherently commericalized and not exactly (generally) conentious;
2. Even if I wrote something negative -- or nothing at all, which I've done -- about the companies involved, no one seems to care.

So I haven't yet felt particularily influenced by PR pressures, but I'm sure it's more subtle and insidious than I'm expecting. Either way, I fully intend to enjoy my (fully paid for) travels and get some experience writing without feeling too guilty about the evil PR angle -- or the environmental one at that. Is this a sign of degrading ethics? Possibly. If I start going all cheerleader for Sky or Microsoft or, hell, even Apple this time next year, somebody smack me, alright?

Anyway, an aside on the camera issue: it seems to work fine if I zoom in hella close, but is still wonky otherwise. Why? Who knows. Time for a new one, I guess.

A few more photos live here.

Long-winded.

It was windy in London last week. Took out some trees in the park by my house:



Or click here. And yes, my camera is still busted.

In other news, started the new job last week. I've written a couple stories so far, but have noticed two annoying Gauntlet throwbacks.

First -- and I blame this on my time as features editor at the G -- I'm not capable of writing short, 300-word news stories. My articles (and blog post) have so far all turned out twice as long as my editor asked them to be. Whoops. Gotta work on that.

And second, they needed a photo of me and my security pic hasn't been uploaded yet, so my editor just did a google image search of me. Only one photo comes up on that, and I HATE it. It's from a long time ago in my early years at the Gauntlet, and has followed me ever since... stupid internet.

Ottawa, again

A new job means a new work permit, which means I needed to make another stopover in Canada's mushy-and-slushy capital, Ottawa, to obtain another visa.

Like last year, I arrived at midnight. Unlike last year, I stayed over at Ryan's apartment (last year, it was South who was nice enough to put me up/put up with me).

Ryan wasn't home, but his two kittens were. Socks and Whiskey are very cute, but violently hyper. They frequently -- several times an hour, throughout the night -- disrupted my sleep by launching themselves onto the bed, fighting under the covers, biting at my toes, or sneaking up to my head and staring at my face until I woke up. It's rather disconcerting to awake in the middle of the night to two sets of black little eyes peering at you (and then thinking of this).

(The next day, at lunch, Ryan asked: "Why didn't you just close the bedroom door?" Um, yes. Good question indeed.)



The next morning, tired from my interrupted sleep, I attempted to take the bus downtown to Elgin Street for my visa-gettin' appointment. I must have missed the bus or the internet lied. I stood there, feet already soaked from walking just a block in the slush, waiting and starting to get worried. If I missed the appointment, I'd wouldn't get my visa and would have to change my flight. I flagged the next cab, and it cost a whole tenner to save my ass. Money well spent.

Arrived at the high comission, where the super-nice security guy proceeded (while searching my bags, he's rather efficient) to warn me against returning hotel keycards back to the hotel; apparently they encode your credit card details on them until the next person uses them, and anyone with a $14 card reader could get said details.

Good advice. Funny, because I swear the security guy last year told me the same thing. Same dude? Who knows.

The getting-of-the-visa was simple. Show them the paperwork, pay the fee, listen to lecture about the shitty state of my passport -- "They might not accept it, after you've put it thru the wash like this." Okay. It wasn't washed, it was apple juiced. And every single border control person has looked at it, lectured me, and then let me pass thru without any trouble.

With a few hours to kill before catching my flight, and having already seen the stirring sights of Ottawa, I proceeded to the local tourist authority to enquire as to the whereabouts of the nearest internet cafe. I was there informed that the local library will let you use their internety computers, even without a library card. Such kindness!

After a few minutes online, I left to get a coffee (Tims, mocha no topping, and a Boston Cream) and to wander around parliament. I tried taking photos, but my camera is having light meter problems, and thinks everything should look like this:



So instead, I took video. I also narrated my video. I hope you can hear it, as it's really rather insightful. I at no point say "Uhhhhh" or "Ummm" or "Anywaysssss...".



As you can probably see, there's not much snow in Ottawa. Normally there is several feet piled at the side of every road. I'm not joking. It's ridiculous. (See: last year's photos.) There is just enough snow, however, to melt into thick slushy, which soaked my socks thru. Amazingly, I saw some retard walking around in those rubber, hole-punched Crocs clogs. Not only are they ugly, but holed shoes are not a smart (or dry) idea for the slush capital of Canada. Then again, I was wearing solid shoes and my socks were soaked anyway.

Post-parliament, I missed my bus (out of stupidity, not poor timing) so cabbed it back to Ryan's for lunch. Post-lunch, I cabbed it back to the downtown area for coffee with South. Post-coffee, I finally figured out the bus system and caught one to the airport...

Edit: In case those videos didn't work for you, try these Google Video links: kittens, ottawa 1, ottawa 2.

Foetus!

The internet is really rather amazing. This may seem a stupid, obvious comment, but when you actually use it for communicating -- rather than killing time, looking up porn, planning frak parties -- it's really rather stunning what you can do.

My sister Amanda is pregnant. Last week, she went for an ultrasound, which was recorded. After some fiddling, my other sister Michelle uploaded two clips to Google Video and sent me the links. So while I'm thousands of miles away, missing out on one of the most important events in my sister's life, I can still see footage of the alien-looking thing growing inside her.

Which I happen to think is pretty freakin' cool. This would have been damn near impossible to do even ten years ago.

So here's the footage of the little alien...



And:





That's four-months of baby right there, that is. The silly thing refused to move into a position where they could tell its gender, hence the non-gender specific pronoun.

We'll have to wait until February to find out if I have a niece or a nephew...

And despite the wonders of the interweb, I'm not sure even hightech communications technology is enough to keep me from feeling like I'm missing out when the little alien is finally born...

Joust!

Of all the things I could have done last Saturday in London -- galleries! music! alcohol! -- I chose to go see some weird "family friendly" war-themed exhibition in Chelsea.

Why? It was called Horses in War. (My brain: ponyponyponyponypony, ect.)

Pretty well, it consisted of:

• a few horses, looking bored;
• some stalls we didn't look at;
• a camel and a mule -- neither of which are horses;
• a tank -- also not a horse;
• a beer stall -- thank god;
• jousting.

Tho the last bullet point there only lasted about 7 minutes, it was by far the most entertaining... aside from the beer. Video goodness:

More photos -- of the still variety -- are here.